La Vengeance
by chromeknickers
Summary: Revenge, though sweet, can turn on itself and become bitter. Guilt, though bitter, is like a flame: a heat bending and charring you out to the edge of something never thought imaginable. One devours while the other consumes. You cannot escape.


_General disclaimers apply. _

This is a very belated birthday fic for **Jack Tamara**, JT. I hope you like it. ^_^

Manifold thanks go to **Aerileigh** for her _invaluable_ beta-ing services, which also led to several evil plot bunnies! ^^

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**La Vengeance**

"_La vengeance se mange très-bien froide._"_ – _Eugène Sue's _Mathilde_ (1841)

Lucius Malfoy let out a barely audible sigh as he sank into the high-back leather chair. Finding a measure of solace in the simple creature comfort, he turned his attention towards the fireplace, hypnotised by the orange flames that crackled and licked at the steel grate of the hearth. Languidly, he let his head loll back, and his slate grey eyes travelled downward, narrowing intently on the tumbler of scotch held tightly in his large hand. With a swift and fluid twist of his wrist, he swirled the golden contents and brought the glass to his lips.

"_Draco Malfoy_!"

He swallowed hard, letting a gentle hiss of annoyance seep past his clenched teeth. With a concerted effort, he tried his best to ignore the incessant banshee wails that echoed off the thick stone walls. He should have called for a house-elf; he should have soundproofed the manor. Instead, Lucius closed his eyes and laid his head back against the soft plush of the leather, imagining a symphony playing in his mind.

Long blond hair slid gently across his face, tickling the taut flesh that covered his temples. Controlled fingers smoothed away the errant silky strands that feathered his bare neck like sweet whispered nothings. It was no secret that Lucius's hair was his greatest _amour propre_, although his vanity knew no bounds. He was well aware of his own beauty and leonine grace, and age had done _nothing_ to diminish either. His eyes, a steel grey, had not lost their edge or allure, even with the faint lines of time that creased beneath them.

Two shining arrogant eyes—dominant—like his son's. Father and son shared the same eyes, the same hair, but little else. Whereas Draco was slender, aquiline and sharp, Lucius was broad, square and angular—more Nordic than Grecian.

"_Draco, come out here, you cowardly bastard_!"

Lucius lowered his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, attempting to stave off an anticipated migraine. He didn't know how much more of the relentless bellowing he could stand. The harpy in question was screeching his son's name like a Fury attempting to exact retribution through the sheer cacophony of her voice alone. She could scream all she liked though. She would eventually grow tired and head home, or he would soundproof the manor. Either way, she wasn't going to get what she wanted. His son wasn't home. No, Draco was off gallivanting in Paris with his latest conquest. His _wife_, Narcissa, was probably doing much of the same.

_Ex_-wife.

A growl escaped his lips, and Lucius lowered his hand from his face to the arm of the chair, gripping it tightly. He took another sip of his drink and silently fumed. He kept forgetting that he was a divorced man now. No more extravagant parties with his elegant wife draped at his side. No. Now he would have to attend soirées alone, like some social pariah to be pitied and tut-tutted by high society.

_Poor Lucius. His wife left him, you know…_

Poor Lucius indeed. He spent his nights alone now, drinking expensive liquor and listening to an etiquette-challenged Weasley girl scream Draco's name on the grounds of _his_ manor in hopes of luring out his coward of a son for a confrontation.

_So sorry, Miss Weasley, but Draco has run away from his problems. Again. _

Lucius loved his son; of that, there was no doubt. But Draco was still such a boy: indecisive, taciturn and arrogant, lacking the patience to cultivate lasting relationships and hone social graces. He was young, too caught up in the excitement of the chase, the hunt. Lucius supposed he might have been the same in his wayward youth, but when Lucius Malfoy settled, he made a commitment. He may have been many things—most far from endearing and some downright terrible—but he was devoted. His wife, on the other hand, was not.

It took him twenty-some years to discover this little fact. Of course, to witness infidelity first-hand would take the wind out of any man's sails, but to find one's wife in the arms of another _woman_ just knocked one flat on one's back. Lucius didn't know how to react. Thankfully (regrettably?), Narcissa made the decision for him and left.

"_Fucking coward_!"

Lucius gritted his teeth and flexed his free hand. His wife had left him for a young redhead, and now here was an even younger ginger braying at his front door. _Literally_. Absently, he wondered if this scenario could be classified under one of the various definitions of irony. He even found himself curious as to whether or not the Weasley girl ever channelled that infamous temper of hers into a more productive _sport_.

He smiled despite the poorness of his own joke and abruptly shook his head. He shouldn't be having such thoughts about a girl half his age—especially not some _Weasley_ girl. He wasn't the type to chase young skirt. Narcissa was only a year younger than he, and Lucius was quite content with her companionship. Or at least he thought he had been.

_Past tense_.

This lack of intimacy and momentary indulgence in self-pity had encouraged Lucius to attend the annual Ministry Ball earlier that evening. He had thought he would run into an erstwhile paramour and strike up a conversation—or perhaps something even better. Instead, he was met with the Weasley girl, hanging off Potter's arm while she got herself properly sloshed. Not a particularly jolly drunk, the girl spent most of the evening casting nasty glances his way. Lucius wasn't entirely sure why she had been angry with him. He had done nothing wrong, at least not that evening. Perhaps she had resented him for being Draco's father, or that he had given the girl a diary that had almost killed her. She couldn't still be upset about that after all these years, could she?

"_Draco, I plan on staying out here all night long. I might even call Harry and let him know about a few Dark artefacts that you have hidden about your chamber_!"

Lucius sighed and set down the tumbler of scotch. A threat to send Aurors to his house at two in the morning was good enough reason to stir him into action. So, he rose to his feet and made his way towards the foyer. As he walked, a great strain of muscles moved across his shoulders and back, shifting under his thin shirt. Not even the effeminate swank of his clothing could hide the tremendous power of Lucius's body—a body capable of enormous leverage, a cruel body. When he finally opened the door, he could see the dark satisfaction gleam in her amber eyes.

She bent forward, squinting, scanning his larger frame. "Where's Draco?" she asked, scowling as she straightened her back.

Lucius, smooth as lacquer, casually strolled towards the gate, opening it. "He's not here, and you _know_ that, Miss Weasley," he replied with icy formality.

She took a few staggering steps forward. "He's a fucking coward!"

Lucius let the briefest scowl touch his brow, noting how pointedly the girl stared at him. He found himself questioning whom exactly she was calling the coward. But, with his usual cool insouciance, Lucius slowly raised a hand to his sleeve and adjusted a gold cufflink.

"Aren't we all at some point in our lives, Miss Weasley?"

She lifted her pointed chin at his blasé response and gave him a defiant glare. She was about to open her mouth to issue a scathing retort involving the courage of Gryffindors, he presumed, but he beat her to the quick.

"Except you Gryffindors, of course."

She let out an inelegant snort at this, and a faint smirk graced his lips. He let his eyes subtly roam over her body, and he found himself reluctantly admitting that his son had taste. The girl was not a beauty in the classic sense, but there was a certain wildness to her features that made her quite becoming. When placid, which he doubted she was very often, she looked downright innocent, almost like a child. Her freckles and wide brown eyes added to this illusion, as did her lithe and youthful body. She was still too young to have gained all her curves, but he could see the beginnings of an hourglass figure. The corseted waist of her gown enhanced this image by contrasting against the flare of her hips while the bodice pushed up her small chest, making it appear ample.

It was her hair, however, that truly drew Lucius's attention. After all, he was a man who appreciated soft, vibrant locks. He wasn't really sure why hers arrested him so, as he never had an affinity for redheads. Lucius had always considered himself partial to blondes. Perhaps it was because of the tight, form-fitting emerald-green frock she wore, which set off her dazzling auburn hair, or maybe it was because green and red were his favourite colours.

_Maybe_.

"What?" she asked with a defensive huff, taking a step closer.

Lucius slightly furrowed his brow. He had not been aware that he had been staring at her for so long—or at least long enough for her to take notice. It seemed as though he was more intrigued with the girl than he would have liked to admit. And, it was the thought of entertainment mixed with alcohol and a hint of loneliness that factored into Lucius's next move.

With a decidedly innocent guiding grasp around her waist, he swivelled them both inside the manor. As they passed the threshold, he shut the door behind and gently set her against the wall. She swayed slightly, sliding an inch or so along the cold, bare stone, and slowly blinked up at him with large doe eyes. He tilted his head to the side and subtly gauged her level of intoxication. At first, her eyes were sharp and clear but then subtly clouded over, blurring out of focus.

"You mind telling me why you were standing outside the gates to _my_ manor, inebriated as you are, Miss Weasley?" he asked suspiciously, frowning for the briefest of seconds. He then began to walk across the length of the foyer towards the waiting room, intent on pouring her a glass of water.

"I'm not that—" she protested, cutting herself off with a hiccup before she pressed herself off the wall and began to walk towards him.

Lucius turned to see her pointedly demonstrating her ability to walk a straight line. He had to commend her on her foot placement in the ridiculous high heels she wore; however, those same dangerous heels caught in the lines of the marble floor, and she teetered forward. Luckily, he managed to take two quick, long strides forward, catching her with an annoyed grunt. She glanced up at him through her thick lashes and laughed at the troubled expression he wore.

_Laughed._

He found himself trying to pinpoint how far from a real laugh it actually was. It was one of those painful chortles, and he imagined its delivery to be much like one being forced to execute witticisms at wand-point.

"Uh. Drunk," she finished with the usual decisive grace of sibilance.

He rolled his eyes and set her straight on her feet, but she refused to use her legs to stand. Instead, she noodled up against him a little too closely, and he tried to disentangle himself while growing increasingly uncomfortable with her supple body's proximity.

He cleared his throat. "Miss Weasley—"

A raspy giggle escaped her throat, veiled behind a glazed expression. Before he knew what was happening, one of her hands had travelled down his chest and teased around his abdomen, and then lowered.

It would have been Lucius's turn to laugh now, but instead he grabbed her wrist with a vice-like grip and pulled her hand out of the inch she had already made down his waistband. He released her and took a step back, scowling menacingly at her impetuousness.

"Lucius Malfoy says _no_?" she asked brusquely, obvious disbelief in her voice. "Hmm, I guess the adage 'like father like son' doesn't apply to _you_." She examined him with cold eyes and took a step forward, stabbing a slender finger at his chest. "Or maybe it's just right. Maybe it's all about the _chase_ for you _Malfoy _men!"

Lucius's back went rigid. "Believe it or not, _Miss Weasley_," he said in a sort of velvety purr laced with an unspoken threat, "I do not sleep with drunken girls _half _my age." He quirked a pale eyebrow and looked down at her with open disdain. "Especially those who've explicitly expressed varying degrees of hatred towards me when _sober_."

She let out an undignified snort and placed her palm flat on his chest. "Oh, look, Lucius Malfoy, _the gentleman_." She leaned in close, turning her small nose up at him while her pointed chin rested on his chest. "You're just a hungry wolf dressed in fine clothing, aren't you?"

It was funny how her words were so precise now, so _enunciated_. Before he had time to analyse, her hands had already begun to move down his chest. Harshly, he caught her by the wrists, his eyes reflecting the various kinds of discomfort that she was provoking in different parts of him—one of those parts being his hips and the electrifying proximity of hers gliding lazily against his.

He slowly bent down so that his nose was only inches from hers. "Desperation is an unattractive look on you, _Ginevra_," he said mockingly, enunciating her first name.

Her eyes narrowed, and she brought her face in even closer, edging her cheek along his so that her lips met his earlobe. "Admit that you're tempted, _Lucius_," she whispered.

She was trying to provoke a negative response, and he knew it. She was so close to him now that he could smell her perfume mixed with alcohol and sweat. And, while he would have normally been repulsed by such an assault on his olfactory senses, he was momentarily taken in by the feeling of her lips trailing down his jaw, teeth gently nipping at his chin. Then, a giggle ran dark and silent up from her chest.

_Fuck_.

"You know this isn't about chivalry, Miss Weasley," he said, becoming pointedly motionless. "I do not eat leftovers, especially my _son's_."

Oblivious to his slight, she began kicking off her heels and settling her feet down on the cool marble floor. The levelling motion made her body automatically drag a soft inch or so against his, and he instinctively recoiled at her touch. He was sickened by the fact that he was getting aroused by her overt displays and appalling behaviour. But everything was unfolding so fast, like a relatively unimaginative fantasy that he should have been having in the safety of his inner perversions.

She looked directly into his eyes, and he got a glimpse of the sharp, reckless gloom hidden in hers. Her lips brushed into his with a kind of gentle pressure that was quickly surpassed with a reckless sort of abandon. Arms twined around his neck and pulled him in closer, demanding. The small amount of alcohol that he had imbibed beforehand was just enough to make him flick off the warning lights in his mind, and he gave in, tasting her mouth. Everything was warm and soft as the rest of her body started to melt into his. Now he was pushing into her hips, enjoying the smooth groove of her lower waist with his hand.

Through the sheer force of will alone, he broke off from the kiss and let his lips rest just against hers. Collecting his breath and his thoughts, Lucius's face became a steely, barely composed emotion.

"You think I'm happy about this?" he asked with a quiet, angry tremor, daring her to answer.

She looked up at him with a similar sense of grim resolution; the only thing she did was wield him back up to her with a blunt grasp at his hips.

"You think I'm—"

For half a second, nothing happened except a hackling, barely perceptible change in his features. Then he pulled back, bluntly yanking Ginny along with a careless, rough tug at her wrist; he no longer cared if she fell over. He dragged her into the parlour, leaving her teetering close to the chaise as he leaned down to remove his shoes.

"Don't talk. Just take off your clothes."

She only stood there for the next few seconds, her features curling out in surprise. The hesitation irritated him, so he knocked her onto the divan with a couple of light pushes; she landed on her back with her legs hanging off while he slowly removed his shirt.

Finally, she obediently propped herself up and began removing the top of her gown, reaching back to undo the corset. Impatient, he yanked her back up to her feet. In a controlled fever, he swiftly ripped open the laces at the back and mechanically helped her slip off the dress. She sat back down on the chaise, and her bare legs curled up in a womanly reflex of coyness. He immediately undid them, propping them open and getting on top of her.

They nudged and backed up farther until they were situated semi-comfortably on the divan. Her breath was speeding up with a slightly frantic colour, and she beat Lucius to undoing and footing down his trousers as if she couldn't handle a moment that wasn't mindlessly bent on getting further, couldn't handle any actual thoughts. She was trying to gain control again, but Lucius wouldn't have this.

With a hint of a sneer, he worked his hand down her hip, trailing a smooth caress along her backside and then around, expertly moving his wrist and palm to tease at the bareness before moving his fingers to her knickers, sliding them down with his hand's pursuit of the long line of her legs. As he poised them back to open around him, he felt them quiver like grass stems. His hands reached down to her hips, and then he landed his elbows in a baiting position on either side of her head.

This was it: the beginning of something unimaginable, of something he couldn't return from. There would be questions afterwards; there would be guilt; there would be shame. And, after all of that, everything would go too far. For now, though, that everything would be pushed to the side to be dealt with later.

So, instead of thinking, his eyes wandered to her breasts and the strapless bra that hid them, the only article of clothing left between them. "Take that off," he demanded.

The expression on her face was nearly unreadable, faintly shy or something else—something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He sighed, irritated, and non-verbally dimmed the lights. Just then, everything felt a tiny bit slower and deliberate as she poised herself up and let his hands roam with hungry ease to free the last of her milky-soft skin from something-percent polyester.

Her motions, in turn, became more coiled with eagerness as she roamed his back. "Lucius," she croaked, wriggling up and wrapping her limbs around him. "Come on—"

It was all coming together in a groggy, slow ascent. He felt her fingers digging in, hands urging over his muscled back, soft feet and thighs moving up his legs, and he hated her saying his name like that—or at all. In another snagging urge, he scooped and pressed his hand high up on the back of her neck. He nestled his mouth on the landing base of the pale stretch of collarbone and pushed.

Her immediate gasps pitched into a slight whine that was all too close to his own ears, and he completely lost any sense of control that he had been exacting just before. He had, after all, failed to take into account that it was going to feel damn good no matter what he did. So, he let out one consternated syllable followed by a rather lavish series of helpless groans as his torso rocked the curve of his hips into her with what he knew would be a fairly bland lack of technique, if that actually mattered at all.

Below him, she was similarly cracking apart; the urging in her hoarse gasps sounded like something pulling and scraping out of her. It was like something underused yet not. He had to wonder if she hadn't done this in a long time, or at least not like this.

Kicked headfirst into that curiosity, he arched himself clean into a different groove of proximity. He pulled a knee up higher until the warmth of her ankle was running its touch along his neck with new wanting. He didn't know why, but he bent down and landed his mouth on hers to taste while he went deeper. With the fuller, blunter motions, she reacted with a tensing grip. Her hands held, one at his side and the other at his shoulder, and she opened her mouth to him with a warm moan. It was feeling damn _nice _by now, and a feeling of vertigo lunged into Lucius's stomach that quite vividly reminded him of why this was such a terrible idea.

His guilt had become a flame—a heat bending, charring him out to the edge of a thing he would normally never allow himself a second thought of. Maybe he needed _something_ to pat himself on the back for, a token of integrity. But no—no, he wasn't bludgeoned over enough with his body telling him _fuck integrity_ not to be realising, with blunt wonderment, that he _really_ was an evil, old git. Aware as he was, though, his body just wouldn't allow him to stop.

So, he sat up, grabbing both her ankles and brought them along either side of his face. He then angled himself and plunged downward, taking in her fresh, young features. Her lips curled into an O shape, gasping, begging, and suddenly he wanted to get close again, just so that he didn't have to look at her. He leaned down, bringing her knees to her chest and propped his hands alongside her head, pushing himself forward so that his chin rested on her forehead.

When she got closer, she was brash and greedy, pulling her knees up around him. "Lucius—_fuck—_more,_ please_—"

Even in his half-swooning rhythms against her shoulder, he thought, _not my fucking name again_. "Shut up," he groaned, even as he felt himself wringing up tighter in response.

"_Lucius_—"

And then he pushed himself up mid-thrust and grabbed a handful of her hair at the back, insistent. "_Ginevra_," he growled threateningly, still penetrating, looking down into her wide eyes. "Please, do shut the fuck up."

Finally, she relented, throwing her head back, and he gave her more, plunging deeper and harder. He leaned up a little but crooked his glances into the dim facelessness of her freckled shoulder. She was tossing her head down again, nudging farther into his chest as she locked up in a shuddering silence, reaching her plateau. He felt himself briskly following, letting out a final defeated grunt as he clutched his large frame into hers. A shuddering spasm, and he let himself drop, his right shoulder collapsing clumsily into her.

"Fuck!"

He tensed up all over again, having heard her let out a minute shriek. He backed up above her and balanced his weight on his forearms. "What—?" he asked breathless, nettled, yet faintly concerned.

"It's nothing," she replied with gloomed annoyance, clutching her hand to her mouth. "I bit my lip, that's all."

She wiped the blood away with a damp wrist, and Lucius's eyes narrowed, seeing the dew of teardrops cascade down her freckled cheeks.

He dipped his head down to look directly in her moistened eyes. "Why are you _crying_?"

"My eyes are _watering_," she corrected, glaring, "because I bit my lip. Because…" She paused, lowering her eyes. "Because you were…_nice_." She glanced up at him, revealed, vulnerable. "I didn't expect that."

_Nice? Him?_

He stared at her blankly, unable to reply. It was peculiar for him to be so reticent right now after everything that had just transpired. Normally, he would jack-knife on this particular portal of conversation with a Thespian-like ease and insult, trying to project his feelings of guilt and remorse onto her. Instead, he had become taciturn and brooding, and it was no wonder that she turned a cold shoulder to him and pushed him off.

She rose to her feet and bent over, rummaging the floor and the divan for her undergarments. Quickly locating them, she slipped on her knickers with deliberate purpose, her naked back exposed to him, simulating some coy act of calculated vulnerability.

"I'm not even _that _drunk, really," she admitted with a mutter, as though she were adding an afterthought.

There was something _apologetic_ in her tone, something that made the wheels and cogs begin to turn in Lucius's mind. His countenance darkened, and a sudden feeling of revulsion washed over him. He turned his head to glare at her, internally cursing himself for what little latitude he had given her.

After a moment under his intense scrutiny, she finally volunteered a faint explanation as she slipped on her bra. "I wasn't trying to hurt _him_," she confessed, hooking the wire at the back before dropping her arms to her sides. "I was trying to hurt _you_."

"Great," Lucius scoffed, shaking his head, and then suddenly raised both eyebrows as the weight of her admission finally sunk in. "Wait. _What_?"

She sat down on the chair opposite and shifted uncomfortably, picking up her ruined frock from the floor and slipping her feet into it. "I don't know. I guess I just kind of wanted to get back at you or something."

She steeled her jaw and pushed herself off the chair, pulling up the gown and trying to do up what laces she could find. Lucius, still naked, sat on the divan, watching her, altogether roughed up by the state of affairs and rather too confused about the evening's upset to really be angry…at least not yet.

"Look, I don't want you to think this was exactly planned," she said, turning to look at him. "Or maybe it was…" She paused. "I just absolutely hated you tonight, seeing you at the Ball, and then I was _drunk_ or something, and…I'm _sorry_."

In that moment, the visible world seemed to slowly wheel around with Lucius becoming the pivotal point. Lies. There was no way that this had just happened; no way it was something that was opportune. There was more that she was not telling him.

He gave her a masked look before he pushed his hands on his naked thighs and rose to his feet, silently searching for his clothing. Scooping up his trousers from the floor, Lucius began to pull them on. Managing a convincing sneer, he turned to glance at the redhead.

"Why, Miss Weasley, are you admitting that you don't hate me _every_ night?" His voice, an elegant tenor had a touch of huskiness to it, a hint of paternal contempt.

He should have known this was all some sort of act, some sort of trick, but for what purpose he did not know. He would get his revenge though, of that he was sure.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. "I don't hate you as much as I thought I did," she answered truthfully.

Lucius frowned, picking up his discarded shirt and sliding his arms through the sleeves. "So, what _exactly_ was tonight then, besides 'hurting' me?" He quirked an eyebrow at the thought of the redhead imagining that she could actually harm him.

"Revenge," she answered simply.

Lucius's mouth opened slightly then closed shut, his natural curiosity piqued. "For what?"

She took a moment to answer, smoothing out her gown that barely clung to her body. "Does it matter?"

Of course it mattered! He could understand her animosity towards his son and himself, to some degree, but he couldn't fathom how sleeping with him was a form of revenge. But, for now, he would let her think that she'd had her vengeance. Oh, he would allow her imagination to run wild—to assume that he was too old and too self-absorbed to ever question her motives or her tactics. She could believe that he was unaware, that he was merely intrigued by her, and the latter part would be true. A woman who used sex as a means of revenge against him truly did fascinate him, and he was not averse to playing the same game

Lucius shook his head and finished buttoning his shirt. "I suppose not," he answered casually, wiping his hands as a force of habit. "So, how was your revenge then, Miss Weasley?"

She thoughtfully flicked her tongue along her bloodied lip, tasting it, before she answered. "Revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long, back on itself recoils."

He let out a soft "Hmm" at her answer before a barely perceptible smirk graced his lips. Revenge _was_ indeed sweet, especially when successfully executed, especially when the intended victim hadn't a clue.

Lucius then took a step towards her and did something rather unexpected: he reached out and tenderly cupped her small chin with his large hand, running his thumb along her now-trembling jaw.

"Care to stay for a night cap, Ginevra?"

**Fin**

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**Author notes: **I left this rather open-ended, didn't I? Yes, well, I'm thinking about adding another chapter in order to explain/clarify Ginny's reasons for revenge against Lucius. As such, they stand as being rather ambiguous. I assure you that there _is_ a reason behind her madness and some of it is even hinted at in this chapter. And don't discount Lucius, for we know that he is far more astute and cunning then what he is letting on to Ginny. Yes, I shall leave this as complete, for now, and then post another chapter when the inspiration hits me. I think I need a chapter with Draco in it. ^_~

1. _La vengeance se mange très-bien froide _translates to 'Revenge is very good eaten cold'. This French passage is where the famous phrase 'Revenge is a dish best served cold' originates from (_La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid)_.

2. '_amour propre_' translates to 'vanity'.

3. Ginny's line at the end, 'Revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long, back on itself recoils', was taken from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_. Yes, in my HP world, Milton was a wizard. ^_~


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